Chapter Text
His slender fingers lightly tap with uncertainty on the dark mahogany desk as melancholy fills the silence. A breathy sigh releases from his lips as his navy orbs peer over the crisp white page.
Empty.
The jumbled words that once raced through his mind, the same thoughts that urged him to put pen to paper, escaped him.
Black frame glasses carry a heavy burden on the bridge of his nose. Needing them to drive and to lessen the strain on his pupils burning from staring at the screen for hours. Usually, after kicking off his shoes at the door, they are the first to fall into the decorative bowl doubling as a key holder.
He thought about taking the time to write the letter in the comfort of his office. His workplace, where much inspiration has sprouted. The view of the city and the small park that greets him on the way to work every day was always a spark of inspiration for even the grueling writer's block.
Typing it on the computer would have saved him a lot of scratches and scribbles and bunched-up paper piling up on the small desk nestled in the makeshift office in his apartment. A two-bedroom loft with ample space—for just him. Never needing to put another bed in there, he lived alone and married to his work.
But even as his journalistic instincts urge him to clatter the keyboards, he wants to, no, needs to write it all out by hand. All of it. All the feelings and emotions he has drowned out with life and years passing, he needed to bring them back out one last time.
"Just write down what you feel and burn it." His coworker suggested. Even though asking for advice wasn't the raven-haired strong suit, he always listened carefully to his silver-haired colleague's words.
The man with the delicate mole right under his eye was the closest thing Akaashi had to a friend. Interning and getting hired together, all the way to their offices being adjoined. The two had a special bond, a trust built into the working relationship.
"Like a seance or something?"
"Yeah, sure." The supportive man chuckles, "or just mail it?" Sugawara suggested, which only made Akaashi wince slightly at the suggestion.
Timely and efficiently. Well organized and precise. Words correlate with Akaashi's work habits, in which he takes great pride.
However, right now, the only words to be used to describe him are procrastinator, avoider, and coward.
Those three words were enough for him to quietly groan in displeasure as his finger clasped the ballpoint pen. The one that was gifted to him as he was awarded journalist of the year three years ago.
A most excellent choice of black ink. Perfect, with no bleeding effect, sharp and smooth on the parchment as the ink begins to stain the once-empty surface.
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I hope this finds you well.
I know it's been a while since I wrote you. And truth be told, I didn't think I'd ever find myself writing to you after all these years.
Even though you strictly said to reach out anytime, for any reason, I didn't. Not because the thought never crossed my mind but because it did. Way too much that I cared to admit.
I told you as we parted ways that I'd leave our blissful memories in the past. I knew keeping in contact, even these wordy scribbles, would make moving on much more difficult. So I avoided it, burying it deeply, and trudging forward. Which I'm happy to say I did. It took me a while, I can embarrassedly admit. I got lost in work and with life in general. Which helped tremendously. But there was still some part of me that ached, that wondered if today would be the day I reached out.
But when the time came to write out the thoughts and words in my mind, I came up short.
Has it already been six years? Where has the time gone?
You always said you wanted to travel the world beyond the rice fields of our small town. And I always laughed it off, haphazardly going along with your ideas. But the truth was, I was afraid. Afraid to leave the familiar town, to branch out on my own and find what's out there.
But above all else, I worried I’d find tranquility in a foreign place. That I'd find a place I belonged, and the dirt road that leads me home would be washed away with the summer rain.
Which I did, funnily enough. It's quaint and quiet. Nothing like the wilderness from home, unable to keep still. Whether it was the cattle, the chickens, or the uncle tending to the crops, whistling from dusk to dawn, there was always noise, comforting nonetheless but still noisy.
In my college years, I visited often. Always eager to see a rusty old sign welcoming me home. A nostalgic warmth would wash over me, calling me back home to the hilly mounds and familiar roads.
Do you remember the big oak tree? How it stood tallest than anything in its radius. I remember confiding in you, telling you with great certainty there's nothing taller than this, nothing better than this. You laughed, of course, telling me stories about steel reaching further than the eyes can see, soaring through the clouds, up to the heavens.
You were right in the end. The oak tree seems so minuscule to the soaring skyscrapers I see on my way to work. My job even, as I stare out the window, people look like ants from up above.
But I loved that tree. Its roots are buried deep into the earth, grounded and firm. It kept us safe from the summer heat and kept our secrets in its trunk.
We'd talked about anything and everything that came to our adolescent minds. Or sometimes, there was no speaking, just the wind tickling our skin. The flickering lights alerted us to go home. We'd lose track of time, always getting scolded for being out past the street lamps turning on.
But it was worth getting yelled at, for me anyway, because no amount of time we'd spend together would never be enough for me.
Years came and went. The tree and that feeling in my stomach remained the same.
Do you remember the words I spoke to you at graduation? With our plaques and our last day of wearing that stuffy uniform, we met under the oak tree.
I said something sappy about how you were my best friend and no amount of distance would ever make me forget about you. And I want you to know that I meant all of it. More than that, I yearned to tell you more. To express to you what you meant to me. But, as always, my cowardice got in my way.
The idea that you were out there, seeing the world, far away from me and without a clue of how I truly felt, haunted me.
And even as you left, no one in our hometown knew who I was inside. I kept that part hidden from the world for a very long time. All the familiar faces we'd see back home every day, none of them with a clue that I was the outlier.
Getting married, having a family, all of it, I wanted it, just like my parents and their parents before them. Just not in the conventional way they'd grown accustomed to, and no amount of me explaining that I was different would make them understand.
Because I was different.
Graduation, once again. There was no oak tree this time, only city skyscrapers, and you were nowhere to be found.
We didn't keep in touch, even though we promised we would, and that hurt more than I could even explain.
Did I truly mean nothing to you? You forgot all about me as soon as you left our old town road?
Every shaggy-haired person with a sheepish smile, I saw you in them, even just a glance with every stranger that passed by. I hoped it was you.
I'm not a religious person, you know that, but still, I silently begged, just for one time, to see you.
Grad school, internship, and life, I am not sure how I managed to find time for sleep during that time. I was exhausted in every form of the word.
Even still, I saw you. I recognized you through the crowds. I mean, how could I not? It was you.
It was as if all my prayers were answered right there in the middle of the subway station. But oh boy, is a reality so much more complicated than the daydream I replayed in my mind.
In the pub by the station, you listen to me ramble, babble in my intoxicated state, a slobbering whimpering mess, but you listened to me anyway.
And well, I don't need to tell you what happened next. You were there...
And I wish you never took pity on me.
"You're still my best friend." Words with no meaning, you spoke. But even still, I smiled at you because you always said you liked my smile.
Did you lie about that too?
This letter isn't meant to open up old wounds. I apologize. And I'm not expecting a reply. I don't even know if this will turn into ash by the time I'm done writing. But I needed to express my feelings in the only way I knew how, through writing.
Even on that drunken night, I never got to tell you how I felt. In our younger days, every time your eyes caught a glimpse of my feelings, I hoped one day you'd realize I was there the entire time, hoping you'd love me the way I loved you. I loved you more than best friends, more than anything. I need you to understand that.
But the hope I carried through the years has only crippled me. I realized that now, and it's time for me to move on. It's time to let you go. It's time I find that epic love I always dreamed about. I deserve that, don't I?
Anyways, I hope you are well. I know you are, but still, I'm rooting for you and your adventures of living your dream. And maybe, one day, when we meet again, I'll be living mine.
All my love,
Keiji.
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(B)
"Ay yo, Bo!" The noise alters his slumber, "Get yer ass up, sleepy head!"
He knew by the familiarity of the voice he would not get any more time to sleep. He lives alone, yet his house was somehow the hangout spot for the team. Since it's close to the sports complex, he usually finds one of his team members, or multiple, scattered around the place.
"It's too early, Tsumu." The silver-haired man groans. Usually, he's on par with the Black Jackals setter, but only after he's given a moment to wake up.
In the kitchen, two of his teammates already made themselves at home, not that Bokuto ever minded it. He enjoyed the company and the breakfast.
"Thanks, Hinata." His golden eyes find the shorter man with orange hair, who receives the first simile of the morning.
"Why does Hinata get a warm welcome? I'm here too." The blonder-haired man pouts.
"Because he brought me juice. What did you bring, Tsumu?"
"My godly presence?" Atsumu praises himself because it's never too early in the morning for that. "Anyways, hurry up and get changed. Meian wants us there early for that sports magazine interview."
Remembering the strict "don't be late" rule, Bokuto's pep in his step quickly appears. Scarfing down his meal, jumping in the shower as the two other men turn on the large flat screen in the living room.
"Hey, what's this, Bokuto?" A curious Hinata asks. His eyes scan the letter on top of what he was searching for—the weekly issue of volleyball magazine.
"Huh? I don't know." He shrugs, finishing off air-drying his hair with his fingers. Usually, just a quick blow-dry and some gel. It's all he needs for his signature grey-hued spikes to be styled.
"Looks fancy, like from a law firm or something."
"Probably a paternity test—or a nondisclosure." A nosy Atsumu interjects.
"But this isn't your address, Tsum." Bokuto jokes back.
He's known his sexuality since he was thirteen, meaning there's no way in hell he'd have any offspring out there. Plus, he doesn't get involved with scandalous affairs—like a teammate with the last name Miya.
"Whatever, hurry up."
To which Bokuto cackles all the way out the door. With the letter in his hands, he puts the mysterious letter into his black gym bag.
I'll open it later.
Interviews or anything that requires him to sit still is what he dislikes most about his job. He's a professional volleyball player, not a news anchor, he silently groans. But he's not the only one. All of his teammates struggle with sitting still. All except one, the one who isn't the friendliest when answering repeated questions.
"Sakusa! Sakusa! Does getting blocked multiple times in a single game affect your motivation?"
"what a stupid question—"
"—no, I can assure you, Mr. Sakusa's determination and focus do not falter, even once." The question was answered by their head coach, who also gets nervous on interview days. He can train the team to be a well-oiled machine, but making them behave outside the court is where he faces his struggles.
Lunchtime finally came around. All the interviewers and photographers shuffled out of the complex as the team walked to the cafeteria. During peak season, their diets were restricted, limiting carbs, and little to no alcohol was allowed. Not that Bokuto minded. Anything he was able to eat, he'd happily clean his plate. The downtime after lunch is the quietest. Some take naps, others put their headphones on and do their own thing, leaving Bokuto the perfect time to open the letter.
Hinata was right. The stamp on the top corner was no name, just a corporate stamp. The addressee line was empty, only with his address written in the center of the envelope.
"What's it say?" Hinata whispers, noticing the sudden eye twitch forming on golden eyes.
"It's uh- a love letter, I think." Quietly and repeatedly, Bokuto read the letter, almost in awe of all the words compiled into a single piece of paper.
"Whoa, Bo, you’re lucky! I've never received a love letter before!" A love letter is something quite romantic that Bokuto has never received before. Fan mail isn't uncommon in their line of work, but is someone professing their love to him? He's never yielded that much emotion to anyone.
"It's uh- actually not for me." He cleared his throat, almost embarrassed that it took him a second reread to realize the name it was addressed to wasn't his. And when he realized this, aching pain in his chest appeared. A strange sensation he felt because this Keiji person wrote such a heartfelt message, Bokuto felt guilty for reading something so private. But most importantly, there was almost a sense of jealousy for whoever it was intended for, secretly wishing someone loved him enough to write him something like that.